Harvestby Bill Robertson

Genre:Horror/SupernaturalSwearwords: None.Description:A small community prepares to celebrate and give thanks
for another successful harvest... but success comes at a price._____________________________________________________________________Mary opened her eyes and stared into the grey light of morning.
She poked a toe from under her blanket, letting it taste the air for a moment. She
shivered and pulled her foot back under the covers. Above her, the roof creaked
as the wind rustled through the timbers. She would give herself another few
minutes before getting up. There was plenty to be getting on with – the Harvest
Festival was the highpoint of the year. At the end of the festival the bonfire
would be lit and e﻿veryone in the village would link hands and dance around it
to give thanks for their crops.Her
growing excitement put an end to any lingering thoughts she might have had of
going back to sleep.

The kitchen bustled as the family got ready to meet the day. Mary set a large pot of water to boil over the hearth. Her mother folded the laundry and prepared a fresh batch to go into the pot. Her elder brother, Davie, laced up his boots ready to go out and help gather the last of the harvest. Mary’s father sipped from a steaming mug of milk and watched his family as they milled around. His dark eyes regarded Mary thoughtfully. ‘Will you be helping with the preparations for today then Mary?’ her mother asked. She did not halt her work while she spoke. Mary noticed her red, chapped hands as they deftly processed the laundry. ‘Aye, Father Henderson has asked me to help decorate the hall for the service – hanging baskets and the like.’ ‘I’m sure you’ll do a good job. What about you Thomas?’ Mary’s youngest brother was busy making a corn dolly, bending and twisting the dried husks to fashion a human shape. ‘I’m helping to pile wood on the bonfire,’ he said. ‘We want to make it even bigger than last year.’ ‘I’m sure it will be wonderful.’ Her father remained silent. ‘Is there something troubling you, Dad?’ Mary noticed how much older he looked these days. His hair had started to draw back from his temples exposing more of his lined face. His skin was a deep brown from working outside all summer. ‘You’re almost grown now Mary. You’ll be sixteen come the New Year - old enough to think about finding a husband and starting a family of your own.’ Mary smiled. ‘Ach Dad, you know you’re the only man in my life.’ His face softened a little. ‘You’ll always be my wee girl Mary but I know that the boys will come courting soon enough… maybe even already.’ He let the words hang in the air a moment. Mary blushed. Matthew Millar didn’t miss much. ‘Perhaps after Harvest fair you can invite Jamie over to share our table for a meal.’ ‘Only if it’s alright with you.’ Her Dad’s face turned dark again. ‘But first we have to get past the Harvest fair. The games are a serious business. You can’t afford to put a foot wrong.’ ‘I won’t Dad, I promise.’

Mary walked down the main street with a basket of fresh flowers on her arm. Her long skirt swished as she walked and the sunlight painted a warm glow on her face and arms. She could see Father Henderson up ahead, stooping as he came out of the church. He seemed to take in every detail as he surveyed the activity going on around him. The Minister took the business of the Harvest Festival very seriously. It was true that most of the mutated livestock were gone now and the fields had once more delivered a bounty to the faithful but the Minister was quick to remind his flock that eternal vigilance was required. People were still weak in so many ways, eager to stray if given the opportunity, he would tell them. Mary knew that many of the younger ones in the village often paid lip service to his teachings while questioning his relevance. They acted as if Henderson’s sermons about how the Great Old Ones had forsaken religion from their hearts and how the cleansing fires had purged their cities of their sin were just stories told to keep them in line. Mary waved as he noticed her. ‘Good morning Mary, Gods bless you.’ ‘Good morning and Gods bless you too Father.’ ‘Come to brighten my Church with your bonny flowers, I see.’ ‘Aye, I have that. Just a wee selection from the garden.’ ‘You’ll be looking forward to the festival tonight, I’ll warrant.’ ‘I am. You, too, I expect.’ ‘Well, when you get to my age every sunrise is another blessing, but you’re right, I do enjoy the Harvest fair especially and we’ve much to celebrate this year.’ ‘Aye Father, it’s been a good year. I’d say we’ll not starve this winter, Gods willing.’ ‘From your lips to the Gods ears,’ Henderson said. ‘You’ll be taking part in the games tonight, won’t you Mary? ‘Aye, last year was my first time but I never got chosen to run. I’m quick on my feet though. They’ll have to work hard to catch me.’ ‘Well, if you’re chosen we’ll see how nimble you are. Anyway, we have a lot to do - you had best come in and make a start.’

Mary watched the flames flicker in the night air. She could feel the warmth from the fire enveloping her skin with a cosy glow, insulating her against the mild chill of the September air. The music had increased in tempo, raising the intensity of the dancing. She had stopped to rest for a moment. The smell of smoke and roast pork wafted from the pits. She could see Jamie Dawson across the flames, clapping in time to the music. He was tall and tanned from a summer in the fields. His eyes flicked over to her. She smiled at him and felt the butterflies stirring in her stomach when he smiled back. She put down her cup of cider and went over to speak to him. As she made to move, a cry went up from the crowd. ‘Lughnasadh is here! It is time for the chase!’ Father Henderson came into view. His cowl covered his face. He carried a long curved sickle in one hand and a leather sack in the other. Mary watched him as he stopped and threw the hood back to reveal a face painted with red ochre. ‘Behold, the god of grain is dying,’ Henderson announced. ‘Vegetation returns to the earth. We call upon the gods of the harvest, asking them for their blessings. The fields have yielded a fine harvest but that harvest comes with a price. The Gods are eternal gardeners – when they cease to tend the earth, man will perish. Before we sow our next crop, the Gods must take their own human harvest. Step forward all those whom the Gods have chosen.’ Mary stepped forward along with the other young folk. There were a dozen of them, all aged between sixteen and eighteen. ‘You stand on the cusp of adulthood. Man came from the earth and to the earth, we must all one day return. It is the way of things. It is time to choose our King and Queen of the Harvest and offer them to the Gods as a payment for our food,’ he opened the leather sack. ‘Choose,’ he said, ‘and Gods be with you.’ One at a time, they stepped forward and dipped a hand in the sack to withdraw a portion of Bannock cake. Mary put her hand in, feeling a piece of flat, soft Bannock on her fingertips. She pulled it out. As she brought it out into the light, she turned it over and saw the black mark on the bottom. ‘She has a burnt piece!’ someone shouted from behind her. Mary felt her heart stop beating for a second, her breath frozen in her chest. She had never really taken the games seriously until now. Well, she thought, looks like I’ll have the chance to prove how nimble I am to Father Henderson, right enough. Henderson passed the sack around the rest of the youngsters. She smiled a little when Jamie also drew a burnt piece followed by two girls and another boy. At least she would have company. ‘You must leave this place at once – the first male and first female to be taken by the pack will be crowned King and Queen of the fair. Gods be with you.’ As they ran out of the square, Jamie reached for Mary’s hand. ‘This way,’ he said. Mary smiled and followed him. Her head buzzed with the cider. The night air seemed to make her skin prickle with excitement as they ran. She could hear the roars of delight from the crowd as they set off in pursuit. Jamie’s hand felt warm in hers, gentle yet insistent in pulling her along. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked him. ‘Into the orchards – there’s lots of places to hide there if we’re quick.’ The night was clear and their eyes soon adjusted to the dark away from the fires. Above them, the Harvest moon shone bright. They ran into the orchard, ducking under low branches and weaving between the trees. The shouts of the crowd seemed to come from many directions. Mary glanced back over her shoulder and saw the twinkling of torches some way behind them. ‘Keep moving,’ Jamie urged. Mary picked up her pace. She could feel the blood thrumming in her ears as she ran. Her breath burned in her lungs. Suddenly Jamie halted. Mary stumbled and almost fell but Jamie’s grip on her wrist kept her on her feet. ‘What is it?’ Her skin felt like it was glowing with heat. Jamie pointed. A pair of eyes watched them from the edge of the trees, two fiery embers in the darkness. They could hear heavy snuffling breaths. ‘Is it some kind of animal? A wolf maybe?’ Mary whispered. Jamie shook his head. ‘It’s too big for a wolf.’ The creature came towards them. Mary could see that it stood upright like a man. As it drew closer, the air around her seemed to chill; her skin prickled making all the fine hairs on her arms stand up. ‘What do you want with us?’ Mary asked. The creature made no reply. Instead its lips drew back to reveal a mouthful of sharp teeth. Mary realised that the creature was smiling at her. It was close enough to smell now; it was an old smell, dry with age but with an underlying hint of corruption. The eyes were huge blazing pits in the dark shadows of its face. Mary’s mind was willing her legs to move but her feet remained fast to the place where she stood. Jamie stepped forward, trying to block the creature’s path. ‘Get back,’ he said. ‘Get back, I’m warning you…’ The creature growled and swung an arm sending Jamie sprawling. It turned to Mary again and reached out to her, placing its hands on her face. She stared into the burning eyes and screamed. She fell to the ground with the creature on top of her, trying desperately to push the thing away. Her dress was riding up between her legs. The teeth nipped at her neck, its sour breath filled her nostrils. She could feel a hardness pushing against her, then a tearing sensation; a sharp pain and then it was inside her. She screamed again.

When the villagers arrived, they found Jamie unconscious beside Mary. The Beast had done its work for another year. The villagers seized the couple and bound their wrists before setting them on the back of a hay cart garlanded with fresh flowers.

A cheer went up as the cart arrived. Father Henderson raised his hands for silence. ‘Brothers and Sisters,’ he said. ‘The Gods demand a lifetime of service from us as a return for their favours.’ Heads nodded sagely in the crowd. Many of the faces were flushed with drink, keen not to miss the final act of the day’s festivities. A shout rose from the back of the crowd. Matthew Millar pushed his way to the front. ‘Stop this! I beg you. Mary is my only daughter. I can’t allow you to do this.’ Strong hands grabbed him and held him back. Father Henderson gestured to the crowd. ‘Let him come forward and speak.’ Matthew shrugged off his captors. ‘Good Father, with all my heart I beg of you not to do this. I would rather burn myself than see my Mary perish.’ ‘Do you hear this foolishness? Matthew Millar would have us anger the Gods by denying them their rightful sacrifice. He has never raised his voice when others have given their precious offspring to the gods. Who among you would share his delusions?’ There was some murmuring but no one spoke up. ‘What of Jamie’s parents? What do you say?’ Jamie’s father stepped forward, his head bowed. ‘It is the way of things,’ he said. Father Henderson nodded his agreement. ‘You speak the truth.’ He turned to the crowd once more. ‘Put them in.’ ‘No!’ Matthew lunged towards the Minister. Henderson swung his sickle in a sweeping motion striking Matthew in the face. He fell to the ground, blood spilling into the dirt. Two men scurried forward to pick him up. A knot of villagers led Mary and Jamie from the cart to the final unlit bonfire. The two teenagers appeared to be in some kind of trance. The villagers tied them to the wooden posts and placed kindling about their feet. Henderson placed crowns made from cornhusks upon their heads. ‘Heavenly Fathers, Mother Earth, we offer you these two fine examples of our youth and pray that their blood will bring riches to our soil for another season.’ Torches were set at the base of the fire and the children danced around the burning King and Queen, singing their songs in the night and casting their corn dollies into the blazing pyre. ‘Hoof and horn, hoof and horn, all that dies shall be reborn. Corn and grain, corn and grain, all that falls shall rise again. Horned one, lover's son, leaper in the corn, deep within the Mother, die and be reborn.’ Their singing mixed with the screams of the King and Queen. At the edge of the village, a pair of orange eyes watched them burn.

Please tell us how much you enjoyed this story.

About the Author

Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.